


Stay the swords (and stay the arrows)

by ElixirBB



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU future fic, Blood, F/M, Killing, Violence, brief mentions of sexual content but nothing graphic, coarse language, underage death in regards to Sandor's sisters death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor Clegane has never taken any vows. He forsakes them all, but he vows that night to protect his Little Bird in ways that he couldn’t and didn’t before. It’s a vow that the Stranger himself will have to rip from his hands before he’s like to break it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay the swords (and stay the arrows)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyTP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/gifts).



_Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray. Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day._

 

The first time he understands the meaning of the song, the first time he hears it the way it’s supposed to be sung, his mother is bending over his younger sister’s dead body. Her voice is broken, catching on her sobs but she sings anyways, brushing away strands of her sister’s once rich hair, now limp and matted with her own blood.

 

He feels bile churning in his stomach as he looks at his mother and then his sister and he stumbles towards them, his face wrapped in cloth to protect it (his scars, his burns, thanks to Gregor and even so young, he knows that this type of fury, this type of rage will never let him go from it’s grasp), and he collapses on the other side of her, his hand reaching out to grab her lifeless one.

 

His mother looks up then, her dark eyes swirled with agony and grief and she continues to sing, as if it’s the only thing she knows how to do. Sandor doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just stays in his place, until he hears his father’s heavy footsteps, hurrying down the hall and then a dull roar as he falls to his knees and cradles the one they all loved the most (all except Gregor but then, the only thing Gregor loved most, other than himself was the endless blood he could spill with his bare hands.)

 

His mother’s sobs subside but the song lays between them.

 

(One month later when they lay to rest his mother, he looks at his father’s grim and pale face and Gregor’s indifferent, almost gleeful face and he sings the _Mother’s Hymn_ lowly, softly enough so only himself, the Gods who have betrayed them and his dead mother and sister, hear.)

* * *

_Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray. Soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way._

 

It takes him a few years to get to the Vale (it doesn’t nearly take him as long to shed Brother’s robes and forsake the vows he never took), and when he does, he doesn’t hesitate in striking down those who get in his way. His bloodlust is strong and his body aches to tear through every single last one of them, because he _knows_ she’s here. He can feel her and he’ll be damned to the deepest pit of hell if he leaves without her (again.)

 

(Sansa Stark haunts his dreams and doesn’t grant him one ounce of mercy. Not that he ever deserved it.)

 

The Vale is chaotic, screams echoing throughout, blood spattered against the walls, the floors, dead bodies lingering in their place, awaiting the Stranger.

 

Fuck the Stranger. Fuck the Gods. Fuck _everyone._ (All he wants, all he’s ever _needed_ , is his Little Bird.)

 

He bounds up the stairs, dodging and slicing people in his wake (he spares one thought to the Elder Brother and thinks of how he will shake his head and ask forgiveness for the wayward soul that will never find peace. But Sandor knows himself better than the Elder Brother and he knows that his peace, his forgiveness, lies not with the Gods, nor even within himself, but rather with a girl, with hair as bright as fire and eyes as blue as the summer’s clear sky) and he comes to an abrupt halt.

 

_She’s dyed her hair_ , is the first thing he thinks of. She’s taller, her body fuller, her face sharper, but her eyes are still as blue as the summer’s clear sky. Her body is trembling, her dress ripped at the shoulder and blood staining her gown. He feels his chest tighten and then explode and he grabs her by the arms and hauls her against the wall, his breath coming heavily from his nose. “Where are you hurt?” He demands to know.

 

She looks shocked to see him; he can feel her chest shudder and he can hear her heart beating rapidly against his chest and through his armor. “Little Bird,” he says again, roughly and there is a voice in the back of his mind, reminding him to be gentle (but he can’t be gentle, he can never be gentle. He doesn’t know how) “where are you hurt?” _Who has hurt you? Where are they? I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all_ (and then softer, _I’m sorry, Little Bird. I’m so sorry_.)

 

She doesn’t say anything, instead, she continues to tremble as she lifts her hand and shows him a bloody dagger. “The heart.” She says, her voice shaky but strong. “I killed him through the heart.”

 

( _Do you remember where the heart is?_ He wants to laugh because for as much as they are different, his Little Bird and the Wolf-Bitch are sisters. They are _Starks_ and they are _wolves_. And he is nothing but a Hound.)

 

He steals her away, past the chaos and past the dead bodies, and away from the cages she knows. They ride until Stranger all but collapses and he sets her down and stares at her as she wraps herself in his cloak, his chest tightening as she buries her head in it. They say nothing, just eat and stare in silence.

 

“I was told you were dead.” She says, her voice soft and a sweeter sound, he has not heard.

 

_Not even the Gods, old and new, could keep me from you_ , he thinks. “I’m not.” He replies, his voice raspy and gruff to his ears.

 

She smiles then, a small, worn and tired smile, but a smile nonetheless. “I’m glad.”

 

Later that night, when he’s pretending to sleep, he hears her shift and get up and then he feels her, as she lays behind him, her hands wrapping around his chest, teats pressed against his back and his cloak covering them both. She leans forward, her breath hot against his ear, “will you take me to Winterfell?”

 

He nods slowly, trying to think of anything but the feel of her teats or the way her fingers play with the laces on his tunic. He’s filled with a sense of fury, because it occurs to him that she’s likely playing him. She’s lived with Cersei and Littlefinger and if any of them know how to play the game, it’s those two. He rolls away from her, body trembling with barely restrained rage and he stalks away from her, putting as much distance as he allows, but not letting her completely out of his sight.

 

She sits up, still wrapped in his cloak and her eyes adjust to the dark. She says nothing. She does nothing and he opens his mouth, ready to tear her apart, until his ears catch a familiar tune.

 

She’s humming it softly, but Sandor recognizes it well by now. The _Mother’s Hymn._

 

_I’ll have that song from you. Sing Little Bird. Sing._

He feels ill, bile rising in his stomach and throat when he thinks back to that night and the way he treated her. He thinks for one wild moment that she’s toruring him, making him feel the agony, fear and despair he made her feel that night. He stops that thought in its place because Sansa _isn’t_ like Cersei and she _isn’t_ like Littlefinger. She is a lot of things, but Sansa Stark is not cruel. She’s just young and beautiful and he’s nothing but a rabid dog that should have been put down years ago.

 

He doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he’s back in the same spot as before, easing himself on the hard ground, his face to the sky. She curls around him, hands automatically going to his chest and the soft words of the _Mother’s Hymn_ floating between them, enveloping them with everything they used to know.

 

(Sandor Clegane has never taken any vows. He forsakes them all, but he vows that night to protect his Little Bird in ways that he couldn’t and didn’t before. It’s a vow that the Stranger himself will have to rip from his hands before he’s like to break it.)

* * *

It’s eerie and reeks of magic when they finally get to Winterfell and find it not only in ruins but also with the remaining living Starks staring at was once their home.

 

At first, Sandor doesn’t see them, he doesn’t see _anything_ through the fog and snow that has suddenly started to fall, but he hears it in the distance, the howls of wolves. The Little Bird perks up, her body growing taut and she leans forward on Stranger.

 

When the fog finally does lift, Sandor first sees the ruins before he sees the people. Sansa lets out a keening wail and she all but rolls off of Stranger, running through the snow, following the howls of the wolves and he curses and jumps after her, yelling at her. Then he falls silent when she collapses against a petite body. He can hear her sob and chirp and he stops when he sees her huddled against her younger brothers and sister. Three direwolves sit around them, protecting them. “How?” Sansa sobs.

 

“Had a dream.” The Wolf-Bitch offers and no other questions are asked.

 

When the Wolf-Bitch finally does see him, she jumps to her feet, sword out faster than he can blink and she points it to his chest. “Do you remember where the heart is?” She snarls at him.

 

Sandor cocks a brow and lets out a bitter laugh. “Ask your sister, Wolf-Bitch.”

 

(From that day, he becomes Sansa’s sworn shield, and despite his half-hearted grumblings and despite the Wolf-Bitch’s taunts on how he’s trading one master for another, he doesn’t deny her. He finds he can never deny his Little Bird anything.)

* * *

It takes them a few more years and the calling of many bannermen, but Winterfell is _finally theirs._ Or at least, what he supposes is a semblance of what it used to be. The Starks have bent the knee to the Targaryen dragon queen and she welcomes them warmly and kind-heartedly, calling them kin.

 

(It makes Sandor’s head spin, but before he can think more of it, Winter has encased them in its icy clasp.)

 

He is from the South and does not have the blood for winter, so to keep warm, he fights with the able-bodied men, snarling and growling at those who taunt him and he roars in amusement at those who quiver when facing him. He is not loved in Winterfell, this much he knows, but he also knows that no one will touch him, for fear of answering to their King and Queen Regent.

 

It’s at the end of one such training, when Sandor turns his back and feels the slice of metal against the back of his knee. He goes down with a roar and he whips his head around, face snarling and ready for blood, when the Wolf-Bitch beats him to it.

 

She yells for guards to restrain the man who attacked him and she watches Sandor with narrowed eyes as he gets up. “Clean up, Hound. You’re dripping blood all over the floor.”

 

“Didn’t know you cared.” He snaps.

 

“I don’t.” She bars her teeth at him. “I should have killed you the first day.”

 

“Then why didn’t you?”

 

She rolls her eyes and walks away, “you know why.”

 

(He’s barely out of the yard, when Sansa hurries towards him, dress in her hands, a scandalous amount of ankle and calf showing, and Sandor has half a mind to run his hands up her legs, feeling the bareness of them beneath his fingertips. She worries over him, telling him he should see the Maester and that she could clean it. “Please my Lord. Let me help.”

 

“I’m not a fucking _Lord_.” He says through gritted teeth. He feels like shit when he sees the way her face falls and he sighs. “It’s just a scratch.” And then he leaves, trying not to limp from the pain and eager to place distance between them, before he does something stupid, _like steal her away, again_.)

 

It’s just a scratch, he tells himself.

 

(Until it isn’t.)

* * *

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray. Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day._

 

If this is death, then it’s a shitty way to die. He always fancied himself dying in bed, naked and sated with his wife beside him, hands curling into his chest, tracing unknown shapes and pressing kisses against his skin. He thinks he would have happily slipped into the dark oblivion that had been calling him for some time, of which, he always avoided.

 

In truth, he always knew he’d die in battle, from being sliced open and bleeding out, the pain overwhelming him, but he’d fight on, because that’s what he does. He fights, he rages and it’s almost poetic that he would die in anger and in fury.

 

Never once did he think he’d die from a fucking _infection_ , set on by some fucking craven of a man who didn’t even have the courage to look him in the face as he attempted to take him down.

 

He shifts, his body still burning and he squeezes the hand that has slipped into his. He feels his chest tighten, he feels his heart quicken and feels the blood pound in his ear until everything is blurry. He knows that hand. The small and deceptively dainty and fragile hand, smooth except for the scar on the palm of her hand, when she stupidly got it stuck in a fucking fence. He won’t forget that day. Won’t forget how little Lord Rickon came storming up, sobbing, his face blotchy and red and blood on his tunic, blubbering that _Sansa is hurt, please, don’t let her die_.

 

It doesn’t take him long to get to her, in fact, he thinks smugly that he beat her Wolf-Bitch of a sister to her and his entire body stops when he sees her, face drawn and pale, body trembling and hand bloodied. “Stupid Little Bird. What the fuck were you thinking?”

 

She chirps and cries as he carries her back into the castle and he stands guard as the Maester wraps her hand and tells her that it’ll scar but she’ll be alright.

 

(It’s one of the most terrifying moments in his life, seeing her bloodied when he made a _promise_ , a fucking _vow_ , to make sure she never feels pain again. That night, he takes his sword and hacks into a tree until bits of wood are flying everywhere and his arms strain with exhaustion. He collapses against the tree and pillows his head against his knees, breathing in deeply, trying to dispel her soft cries, blue eyes and red blood from his mind.)

 

“My Lord.” She says softly, breaking him out of his memory, her voice is next to his ear and it tickles him, makes him feel some foreign emotion bubble within his body. He wants to tell her that he’s _no fucking Lord_ and to fuck her courtesies, he doesn’t _need_ them. He doesn’t _want_ them, because he _knows_ what she’s truly like. He _knows_ and has _seen_ her fierceness. He _knows_ and has _seen_ the wolf inside of her and Gods above, old and new, save him but he fucking _loves her for it_.

 

He’s been a dog since the cursed day he was born and she’s a highborn, the Queen Regent and he laps after her, relishing in her soft smiles and wide eyes and laugh that eases whatever anger resides in his body (and in the darkness of his room, he can almost imagine her with him, body pressed against him and whispering sweet nothings in his ear and he’ll _listen_ to her, he’ll bend the knee and pledge himself to her and _only_ her.)

 

“My Lord,” she repeats, “you need to come back. I cannot…you cannot…” she takes a deep breath, “do not leave me. Please. _Please_.” He can hear her voice crack and he can feel phantom touches of her fingertips along his forehead and the burned side of his face. He can feel the heat of her body as she leans forward and presses her forehead against his temple. He can feel the wetness trickle down and make a place on his face, neck and shoulders.

 

It occurs to him then that she’s _crying_. Crying and pleading. Over _him_. A useless dog who has no reason, no purpose to be in her presence. He wants to tell her not to waste her pretty little tears and pleas on him but he doesn’t.

 

_“Sandor_.” She sniffles and he feels as if his body has jolted, as if struck by lightening and he _burns_ at his name coming from her lips. “Sandor. You are strong and valiant and you have never, not once, lied to me, so do not start now. You said you would be here, always…that you would protect me, always.” She takes in a deep breath presses her lips to his cheek. “Sandor…I love you.”

 

He feels the weight of her body as she covers herself over him, ears pressed against his heart. “Come back to me.” She whispers into the night. “Come back to me.”

 

His body soars, his blood pounding fiercely through his veins and all he thinks of, all he registers are three little words before he is thrown into the dark oblivion.

 

_(I love you. I love you. Iloveyou.)_

* * *

His eyes strain against the light as he opens his eyes and he moves gently, if stiffly. He glances to his right and sees his Little Bird, curled into herself on a large chair next to his bed.

 

“’Bout time you finally woke the fuck up.” A voice to his left hisses.

 

He turns his head and sees the Wolf-Bitch, legs thrown on bed, her dirty boots soiling the sheets. “What do you want?” He rasps, throat sore and aching for water.

 

She rolls her eyes and twirls a dagger in her hand. She nudges her head towards Sansa. “She hasn’t left your side, though I constantly told her to leave you for the Stranger.” She lifts her legs and plants them on the floor, getting up and leaning over him. “If you so much as make her cry, or worry herself sick over you again, by the Seven, I’ll make good on my promise and kill you my fucking self.”

 

“Arya!” Sansa gasps as she wakes and stretches.

 

Arya moves from her place and smiles. “I’m just welcoming him back to the living.” She gives him a sneer and walks away from him, “do ensure to enjoy your stay.” She walks over to her sister and kisses the top of her head before she leaves, slamming the door behind them.

 

The Little Bird fusses over him and pours him a cup of cool water, helping him sit up and watching as he drinks it, as she takes a spot on his bed and close enough that he can feel her heat. She’s blushing, he notices and biting her lip. “I am pleased that you have woken up, My Lord…we feared the worst when-”

 

“My name.” He rasps; almost desperately as he drops his cup, water sloshing on the floor. All he can think about, all that races through his head are three little words _(I love you. I love you. Iloveyou_ ) and the way his name sounds coming from her lips. _“My name.”_

 

Her eyes widen and her mouth falls open, her blush deepening. She leans forward, her hair a fiery curtain, trapping him in its grip and Gods, he would gladly burn in it. “Sandor.” She says softly, her lips pressing gently, hesitantly across his cheek, “Sandor. _Sandor.”_

 

She pulls away from him and he instantly misses her warmth. She grabs one of her hands and interlaces her fingers with his. “You heard me say you name.” She states, “I presume you heard me say other things, as well?”

 

He nods wearily, trying his best not to seem eager, not to expect anything from her.

 

“Good.” She squeezes his hand and gives him a shy but brilliant smile. “Because I do. Love you, I mean.” She bites her lip and looks at him through hooded eyes. “Do you…could you…love me?” He’s reminded painfully at how young she is when she asks the question, her body tense, as if waiting for rejection and he wonders what goes on in her mind to think for _one second_ that he could ever _not_ love her.

 

_A hound will die for you, but never lie to you._

 

So, he does what he knows how to do and tells her the truth, “more than anything in my life.”

 

(She squeezes his hand and he squeezes back.)

* * *

Later that night, she lies down next to him, her hands curled around his chest and tracing unknown shapes into the fabric of his tunic. He hears her humming softly and he almost groans at the familiar tune when it reaches his ears.

 

“You know,” he says lowly, “I really hate that fucking song.”

 

She tilts her head back and laughs so hard, he’s sure everyone in the castle hears her. When she settles back and resumes tracing unknown shapes in his tunic, she continues to sing, this time, picking up the words.

 

_Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray. Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day._

 

(He falls asleep listening to her sing and trace unknown shapes in his tunic and he thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ , he doesn’t hate the song all that much.)

**Author's Note:**

> For LadyTP on accounts of her being awesome and a supreme human being.   
> So…you guys are ALL awesome. Like seriously awesome. Thank you all so much for welcoming me into the SanSan community and thank you for taking the time to read this. My heart literally swells with the response I’ve gotten and I just…words cannot describe how amazing you all are.   
> HUGE SHOUTOUT to everyone who has encouraged and supported, reviewed, kudos'd, bookmarked, followed, favorited, etc...my last one, seriously guys, I cannot thank you enough for just being amazing and wonder.


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